


Callahan's Crosstown Diner #5: Just Desserts

by cakeisnotpie



Series: Callahan's Crosstown Diner [5]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Daredevil (TV), Jessica Jones (TV), Marvel, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Diners, F/M, Fix-It, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Pining, covers from Jessica Jones, diner au, get-together, to Captain America Civil War, told from the POV of oocs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-06
Updated: 2016-06-06
Packaged: 2018-07-12 17:39:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7115800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cakeisnotpie/pseuds/cakeisnotpie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With inhumans popping up, the Avengers fighting among themselves, and villains around every corner, the crew at Callahan's keeps plugging away, day-by-day, taking every chance they can to make a difference.  </p><p>This story covers the time from the end of Jessica Jones to CACW.  Be forewarned that the story is not always canon compliant. It's more a fix-it at time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Callahan's Crosstown Diner #5: Just Desserts

**Author's Note:**

> Back to the diner after CACW. My poor babies. I had to give them some good things after all the angst the Marvel writers are putting them through.

Living in a world of superheroes and villains seems like something that would never get old. Every day, a new kind of crazy emerged somewhere; Chitauri on sky sliders and megalomaniac robots were as common as gangs and mob violence. Sokovia dominated the news cycle of the major networks for three months, the burning of Hell’s Kitchen was still talked about on the local channels. A guy who ran really fast, a spider like hero swinging on webbing through the city, and a bad guy with mind control killing far too many people. Cocoons that turned some to ash and changed others by genetic mutations. H.Y.D.R.A., A.I.M., S.H.I.E.L.D. … out of the shadows, the dangers and those protecting us from them came into the light.  A cacophony of wonder, almost too much to comprehend.

 

So New Yorkers pretty much ignored it all. Those who lost loved ones mourned, and the survivors dealt with their guilt. The rich spent obscene amounts of money on white t-shirts white struggling actors waited tables and lived on ramen noodles. The United Nations kept talking and the NYPD officers chased robbers and solved murders. Humans were humans even if they had fire breath or could blow stuff up with their minds. Page Six started a column just for superhero hook ups featuring instagram photos and “I spent the night with a sex god!” stories. Neighborhoods had their own protectors and the people they helped hid their identities behind practiced apathy. 

 

At Callahan’s, the emergence of people with powers into the spotlight met with differing responses.  The older crowd, the ones who had lived their lives under the radar, wanted to remain that way; the younger ones talked about telling their families and friends, for the most part. But that didn’t always hold true; Katya and Antoine had a falling out over the question, not speaking for almost a month before their approaching graduation date gave them a reason to make up.  Kayla thought about opening a tarot reading service; Angela, on the other hand, believed it wouldn’t be long before the men in black came looking for them.  Considering that the Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. loved Andy’s pancakes, they all knew there were branches of the government already at work on registration protocols. 

 

Still, the diner was always open and conversation was free. Patrons came and went, Andy tinkered with new recipes, and the city never rested. If a few more people found the restaurant, well, then, they needed to. Just like all the others. 

 

**ANDY CALLAHAN**

 

I actually enjoy working the graveyard shift; Kayla says that makes me crazier than her, but there’s something about the quietness of the city, all shrouded by darkness in our little alleyway, the glare of lights just around the corner. Three a.m. is the dead time when only the most hardy of patrons are out and about; the theater people have gone home, the night shift middle of the night meal is over, and even the garbage guys haven’t gotten out of bed yet to start their routes. Insomniacs, wandering souls, and people up to no good are the only ones moving our way. Cabs are still on the street, but they cruise slower, their horns silenced. An occasional bus lumbers by with one or two riders and a lonely driver. Me, I’m usually in the back, getting things ready for the breakfast rush, making biscuits and batter base for pancakes and waffles. This morning, ‘cause it’s not night anymore at 3:42 a.m., I’m putting together a barbacoa egg scramble with chipotle chilies and diced jalapenos. I can bake it in big pans and leave it in the warmer, dish it up with homemade salsa verde and a mole sauce. 

 

MIckey, the new guy, is covering the counter and the short order grill. Even though he doesn’t talk about it, I know he used to be a hot young up-and-comer in the food scene, on the fast track to owning his own restaurant and making a name for himself in the culinary world. At least he was until Wilson Fisk went to prison, and his company nearly went under from all the grand jury indictments and IRS scrutiny. The guy whose kitchen Mickey was head sou chef of turned out to be hip deep in laundering money for Fisk; everyone was called in and questioned about shady activities. Mickey told the truth and now he can’t get a job anywhere; damn elite snobbery and hush hush under the table rumors. Soon as I put the help wanted sign in the window, Mickey had pushed the door open within half an hour, down to his last ten dollars and a bus ticket home to Monterey.  What he could do with pastry was downright amazing, and his sushi rolls made my mouth water just to think of them. Actually, I dream about the mango Hawaiian one sometimes, a row of them on Alfre Woodard’s stomach and Leo Dicaprio with a bottle of warm sake. Hey, it’s a dream. It can be weird. 

 

Anyway, Mickey’s got the lightest touch I’ve ever seen.  He makes the most delicate of food -- radish roses, chocolate curls, see through seaweed paper cranes -- and his talent translates over to people.  As far as I know, he’s the only one who has ever touched Matt Murdock without him knowing it, and he set Skye’s … damn it, Daisy’s … finger when she smashed it in the door without eliciting a peep from her. 

 

Only one booth was occupied and we both knew better than to interrupt that little tete-a-tete. Far be it for me to get involved in what had all the hallmarks of a budding relationship especially between a sweet woman who was hiding something and a hulking killer of a man who wore his grief like a cloak. My ex-wives would laugh at me if I even thought about opening my mouth. Besides, I’d held my tongue when Karen and Matt had dated for all of five minutes, so I was following the same path for Karen’s latest beau. 

 

“Order up,” Mickey told Sebastian, putting the plates out for the younger man to take to the table. 

 

“Looks good,” Seb told him, balancing two plates of fries on his forearm and carrying the rest in his hands. 

 

He slid a piled high club sandwich in front of the guy, careful to keep it from tipping over. “One Tuff Enuff with extra turkey and creamy dijon instead of mayo.  Cajun fries on the side.” 

 

A big salad went to Karen who pushed her long red hair back and smiled. “And a Black Velvet with plantain chips, spicy peanuts, peppered bacon, and ruby leaf lettuce plus an order of parm garlic fries.” 

 

“Thanks,” Karen said, picking up the mango vinaigrette and drizzling it over the leaves. “The shake’s as good as always.” 

 

“Best in the borough,” Seb replied, bumping her hand as he set down the extra dressing she’d ordered. “It’s the homemade ice cream that does it.” 

 

“‘S good,” the guy said, nodding his head so the tip of his low slung baseball cap turned down. “Real good.” 

 

Sometimes I wonder if there’s a class they all take in going incognito; if so, they should ask for their money back. A zipped up hoodie, an old ball cap and a pair of sunglasses only draw attention to you in New York City. Basically, it’s like screaming “Hey! I’m famous and don’t want you to notice me!” on a street corner in Times Square.  Stark runs around in Bulgari shades that cost thousands of dollars and thinks he’s in hiding.  At least Frank’s sweat jacket was a cheap one from Walmart with holes in the sleeves. Yeah, we knew who he was; his face had been splashed over all the tabloids and the local stations carried trial updates 24/7. No matter what I thought about the man’s methods, I couldn’t deny he’d drawn a raw deal in life. Now that the facts were out about his ex-military commander and the Hand, well, I still didn’t like all the killing, had enough that in the service, but I’d serve him a sandwich or burger if he came in. 

 

The bell over the door rang and Clint Barton sidled in; he was wearing that nice leather jacket he’d taken a shine to last winter, and a purple and grey plaid button up. His hair was spiked up, newly cut, and it was a little more blonde in places. Not looking at the occupied booth, Clint slid onto a stool. 

 

“Hey, Mick!”  he called. “Set me up with two Harden My Heart burgers to go, one with everything and the other hold the onions. And two chocolate shakes plus garlic parm fries.” 

 

“On it,” Mickey replied, turning to the fridge to get the four patties for the doubles. “Pink in one, mooing for the other?” 

 

“Indeed,” Clint said in his best Teal'c voice. Without turning, he continued. “Hey, Frank. Been awhile.” He spun around. “Imagine meeting you here. What are the odds?” 

 

“You’re as subtle as a ton of bricks, Barton.” Frank sat back and put an arm along the back of the booth. “You damn well knew exactly where I was.” 

 

“Maintaining the illusion, dude.” Clint leaned on a elbow and nodded his head at Karen. “Clint Barton, at your service, ma’am,” he all but drawled in a midwest accent.

 

“You’re Hawkeye.” Karen glanced nervously at Frank. “Of the Avengers.” 

 

“Well, darn, I wish you hadn’t said that. Now I’m going to have to kill you,” Clint kidded.  Karen didn’t seem to get the joke, eyes widening as she darted her glance between Frank and Clint. 

 

“He’s a pain-in-the-ass, but Barton’s harmless,” Frank told her. “Uses a bow and arrow, for God’s sake.” 

 

“Frank and I served together in the military, Ms. Page,” Clint assured her. “I’ve got no beef with him or you. Or your bosses Murdock and Nelson, come to think about it. Sad to see the band break up.” 

 

“Join the club,” Karen said, taking Frank at his word and relaxing enough to eat a bite of her salad. “We did some good together and now Foggy’s got an office with a view and I’m writing stories for the paper and Matt’s … well, Matt’s wherever Matt is. Probably off with that ex-girlfriend of his.” 

 

“That sucks,” Clint agreed, taking the coffee Sebastian handed him to drink while he waited. “A lot of that going around lately. Bad shit happening to good people. And there’s probably going to be more of it coming down the pike.” He took a piece of paper from his inside breast pocket and laid it on the table by Frank’s hand. “Might be nice to have friends you can call on if the times get rough. Frank here, well, he’s never been completely right in the head, but I’d trust him with my family’s lives if need be.” 

 

“Heard about Barney.” Frank tucked the paper in his own pocket, never unfolding it. “All that shit that got dumped on the internet. Who’d have thought that bastard would turn good before the end?”

 

“Surprised the hell out of me,” Clint admitted. “You ever meet Laura and the kids? Could have knocked me over with a feather when I found out Barney had gotten married and had a couple rug rats.”

 

“Met her twice, actually. Before the kids. Woman is efficiently scary. I pity anyone who thinks he can take her out.”  Frank’s eyes narrowed in on Clint’s and something unspoken flowed between them. “Course, there’s some real whack jobs around; you’ve run into a few of ‘em.” 

 

“You’ve had your share, I hear. It’s like the world’s gotten a lot darker lately; I worry.” Digging out two twenty dollar bills, Clint laid them on the counter as Mickey started putting the burgers together. 

 

“Yeah, I get it.” Frank’s nod was quick and succinct. He paused, wrinkled his nose and examined Clint closer. “You dying your hair now? What the fuck? You finally find someone who wants to tap that ass more than once?” 

 

Clint laughed, a free and easy sound that made me happy to hear. “I’m working on it, Castle. Working really hard on it.” 

Frank Castle had been in my diner three times now, but that was the first time I’d ever seen him smile. 

 

**TOM DONALDSON**

 

Thursday’s my least favorite day of the week. Since I retired, each day has it’s own flavor. Sunday’s church with the missus, Monday’s the VA, Tuesday’s working with the kids at the center, and Wednesday’s the weekly poker game. Friday and Saturday were spent with the grandkids, exhausting but so much fun to watch them grow up. That left Thursday for yard and house work, and I hate mowing grass. Hate it with a passion. That’s why I always treat myself to a nice big piece of Mickey’s apple pie with a scoop of ice cream. What my beloved doesn’t know … well, she knows, I’m sure, but she never mentions it. 

 

I was halfway through the bliss of warm filling and cold salted caramel when she climbed up on the stool next to me. Young, not more than early twenties, she looked like a student at one of the many colleges, pretty brown hair tied back with a blue holder and a book bag over her shoulder. But my cop senses told me a different story. Her t-shirt was wrinkled, jacket shoved haphazardly into the pack, her jeans wet around the bottom. Hands shook as she picked up the menu, eyes darted from side-to-side, shoulders hunched and head ducked down. The girl was running from something … or more likely someone.  

 

“Can I get you something to drink?” Roy asked. “Cup of coffee? Tea? I make a mean shake.” 

 

She jerked at the sound of his voice, looked behind her at the door, patted her pocket and pulled out a few crumpled dollar bills. “Coffee. Sugar and cream.” 

 

“You got it.” Roy began turning the knobs and dials on the extra fancy machine Tony Stark had sent in replacement for the old one Mal couldn’t keep working anymore. Only Roy and Mal knew how to use it; they were training the others, but it really was like rocket science, or so Kayla had said. 

 

“Everything okay, miss?” I asked gently. Never good to talk too loud or be too threatening to someone already so terrified of everything around her.  I put on my best grandpa face, glad I’d worn my old plaid workshirt instead of changing. “You look like you could use a hand.” 

 

“What? No. I’m fine. Everything’s …” She broke off with a quiet little sob. “I’m just so tired. That’s all.” 

 

“You got a place to stay? I know a church a few blocks over that has some beds in the basement …” I tried to suss out her problem, what she was running from, see how best to help her. “Priest there’s a good guy, no questions asked, just provides a hot meal, fresh sheets and sanctuary.” 

 

“I shouldn’t … maybe. A few hours sleep would …” She shook her head. “I don’t know you. I can’t trust anybody.” 

 

“That’s Tim.” Roy slid the white porcelain cup across the counter to her. “He’s a fixture around here.  Even got his name on that specific stool.” 

 

“Comes in every Thursday and orders pie a la mode,” Kris offered as he came out from the kitchen carrying freshly washed silverware to refill the trays. “Even though he’s not supposed to eat that much sugar.” 

 

“One sweet  isn’t going to hurt me,” I protested. I could sense the girl relaxing, accepting that we were what we appeared to be, diner workers and a regular customer. “Besides, Mickey’s pie is worth every calorie. You should have a slice.” 

 

Eyes glanced down at the dollars still on the counter top. “I’m not hungry,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. 

 

“My treat.”  I put ten dollars by her money. “Get this young lady the soup and sandwich lunch special with a side of pie.” 

 

“I can’t take that.” Tears were gathering at the corner of her eyes, her hands shaking so that she had to sit her cup down. 

 

“Honey,” Kris put his hand on hers, letting his calming influence flow into her. “You’re not going to win this fight; you look like Tim’s granddaughter.” 

 

“Oh.” She offered me a tremulous smile, a bit of her fear fading. “Well, it has been a while since I ate. Soup sounds good.” 

 

Kris ran through the soups of the day and the sandwich offerings. Technically, there wasn’t a soup and salad special, but Andy had a soft heart for people down on their luck. Whatever they could pay would buy them at least one hot meal. Between Roy’s unique brew, Kris’s touch and Andy’s food, this little girl would feel much better. Wouldn’t solve her problem, but dealing with shit always went better on a full stomach. 

 

About the time her bowl of One Night in Bangkok noodle soup appeared, the door opened and in came a tall, dark skinned man wearing all black, from boots to jacket.  As soon as she caught sight of him, her whole body stiffened; she ducked her head yanked up the hood of her sweatshirt, and hunched over her bowl. Every move of hers screamed flight; she was going to run as soon as she had a clear shot at the door. 

 

“Mack!” I called to the newcomer. “Long time no see.” 

 

“Too long,” Mack agreed, taking my hand and shaking it heartily. I didn’t miss the sideways glance he gave the girl, but Mack was good at his job. “I saw Andy’s got his St. Elmo’s Fire chicken and gravy on the menu. I’m one lucky man.” 

 

“I can’t wait to have my favorite shake,” Fitz said, joining the conversation.  “Red velvet and salted pretzel cream.”

 

“What’s that one called again?” Mack asked the shorter man, a grin on his face. 

 

“You just want me to say it out loud,” Fitz protested. 

 

“Oh, yeah, I love to hear it in that accent,” Mack countered. “Say it, Turbo. Come on.” 

 

“I Want Your Sex shake.” Fitz blushed to the roots of his ginger hair, his normal Scottish accent getting heavier as he spoke. “There, are you happy?” 

 

“It’s a start,” Mack replied. “Let’s order and we can negotiate the rest.” 

 

Roy’s grin split his face as he watched the two men settle into the booth just behind us, Fitz sliding in first and Mack scooting in the same side. Mack’s head bent down to whisper in Fitz’s ear and the younger Scotsman’s skin flushed from neck to hairline. Looked like they’d finally got their issues worked out; I hadn’t seen Mack that happy … well, ever … and Fitz’s speech was doing so much better since the last time he’d been in the diner.  

 

“And here’s your Melt with You grilled cheese,” Kris said to the girl. “Eat up.” 

 

She wasn’t much of a talker, so I let her eat in peace. Pausing between each bite, she savored the taste, tipping the bowl for the last of the broth when there was nothing left but crumbs on her plate. The mound of fries Andy had added were gone as well as her third cup of coffee. I didn’t think she’d have room but she polished off the pie one forkful at a time as I chatted with Mack about my old ‘67 Chevy pickup that I tinkered with on occasion. 

 

“Oh, I’m so full.” The girl pushed her plate away. “I shouldn’t have eaten all that. But it was so good.” 

 

“Andy’s the best,” Mack agreed, waiting until Fitz had a bite of the pie they were sharing before he took one of his own. 

 

With a gasp, she sat up, eyes gone wild, then grabbed at her head with a cry of pain. “They’re coming,” she groaned. “I have to get out of here.” 

 

“Hey, now, it’s okay,” I told her, reaching out to comfort her. She jerked away from my touch, jumping off the stool and weaving unsteadily on her feet. 

 

“You don’t understand. They have some device, makes me unable to … I can’t stop … I don’t want to hurt you.” 

 

Her fingertips turned purple, the color spreading along her hands, across her wrists and up her arms. Purple shifted to blue then green then yellow, red and back to purple, a spectrum chasing up her skin. Her eyes shone pure white, piercing beams of light that scanned the room. 

 

“Abigail.” Mack stood up but kept his distance.  “That’s your name, right? Do you go by Abigail or Abby?” 

 

“I can’t … Abs. My dad calls me Abs.” She drew in a deep breath and fought for control. 

 

“Abs. I like it.” Mack took one step closer. “The people chasing you, they’re bad. You know that already. Fitz and I are here to help. We can teach you to control the power, learn how to use it for good.” 

 

“My family. They said they’d hurt them if I didn’t go with them.” She was shaking violently now, the colors pulsing brighter. “My little brother …”

 

“I talked to your mom and dad yesterday; they’re fine. Your brother hit a homerun in the playoff game last night. I’ve got a picture he wanted you to have on my phone. Said you’d say ‘pic or it didn’t happen’.” 

 

A sob broke from her lips; she curled in on herself, sinking to the floor. “I don’t know, I don’t know what to do.” 

 

“Abigail, listen.” I crouched down by her. “I know these two. They’re the good guys. If something happened to my granddaughter, I’d call them to help. I promise … we all promise … they’ll keep you safe and get you back to your family.  Their boss? He’s the biggest Captain America fan ever; he won’t let anyone hurt you.” 

 

“I like …” she sniffed “I like Hawkeye the best.” 

 

“Actually, you might get to meet him.” Mack had a small device in his hand that looked like a remote control. “He’s visiting right now.” 

 

“You work with the Avengers?” That grabbed her attention. 

 

“Yes, ma’am.” Fitz assured her. “You ever seen Hawkeye use his boomerang arrow? My invention.” 

 

“See? What did I tell you?” I patted her on the back. “The good guys.” 

 

Before they took her in their strange Willie Wonka elevator box contraption, Andy gave them a whole pie to take with them. More than anything we said, I think that made the girl feel better. I was just glad she’d found her way to us before the bad guys got her. Maybe the diner needed some sort of hotline straight to Phil because I was sure she wouldn’t be the last of the new mutations we saw stumbling through the door.

 

**KAYLA PARK**

 

“... this historic meeting of the U.N. and the 117 nations that have signed on to the Sokovian Accords, Kelly. What we know is that King T’Chaka of Wakanda has already arrived along with his song, Prince T’Challa. The King will have the honor of giving the opening address …”

 

“I can’t believe they’re really going to do this,” Mal said, putting down his tool box on the counter. “Put the Avengers under their control. Without Cap and Falcon and the others signing on.” 

 

Personally, I didn’t like the idea either but then nobody asked me.  Seemed like the bigwigs of a lot of governments got together all in secret like and made up their minds. Yeah, I know the arguments … dead civilians, all the destruction, Stark being a meglomaniac … since my brother loved to repeat everything he heard on talk radio. Thing is, I’d trust Tony Stark before some politician any day.  Man might make some pretty big mistakes, but he had a good heart. 

 

“You get that fryer working?” Andy asked, forestalling the conversation as the door opened and Clint came in, followed closely by Phil. 

 

“Yeah, it’ll work for another six months, but that circuit board’s going to need to be replaced soon.” Mal took the change of subject easily, nodding at the men taking a booth. 

 

“Two coffees coming right up.” I could read their exhaustion, the pall of grief over Peggy Carter’s passing.  “Pour some All I Need pancakes for Phil and Clint needs a Greatest American Hero breakfast, eggs over easy, bacon almost burnt, and wheat toast.” 

 

Andy got busy in the kitchen and I went to turn off the television before I poured the coffee. 

 

“Leave it,” Phil said. “Been on a plane for eight hours; I’d like to hear what’s going on.” 

 

“What me to make this decaf?” I paused. 

 

“Fully leaded. We won’t be able to sleep for a while yet,” Clint said. “Got a lot on our plates.” 

 

“... tain America is conspicuously missing along with the other original Avenger, Hawkeye. The official word is that he’s retiring rather than sign …” 

 

“Going to do a lot of fishing,” Clint told me as I gave him his coffee. “Maybe learn how to make pancakes as good as Andy’s.” 

 

“You’ll be stir crazy in a week,” Phil said. “My offer still stands.” 

 

“I know.” Clint smiled at him, a sadness behind his eyes. “But I’ve made enough bad decisions in my life; last thing I need to add another one to the list.  This is fucked up enough without me getting involved.”

 

“Clint.” Phil reached out and covered Clint’s hand with his. “Come with me.” 

 

“I’m a mess, Phil. You’ve got enough to deal with,” Clint protested. 

 

“Everything’s going to hell in a handbasket. What’s new?” Phil squeezed his hand. “I want you with me.” 

 

Mal’s eyes widened and he ducked into the kitchen; I turned my back and got busy with folding napkins. Sara was going to be so jealous that I got to witness this moment, the one we’d all been pulling for. 

 

“... just started, according to our sources.  The King is going to welcome everyone, give some short remarks and then …” 

 

The reporter’s words were cut off by a loud blast; the camera spun end over end, still filming flashes of flying debris and billows of smoke. It landed on its back, lens pointed up at the gaping hole in the side of the building, a rain of falling glass hitting all around. Screams filled the mic then shouts and pounding of feet on pavement. Legs appeared, blocking the shot, knocking the camera into a skittering roll before it finally went dark. 

 

“Fuck.” Clint was out of the booth, his phone in his hand. “Nat’s …” 

 

“Fine. She always lands on her feet.” Phil was beside him. He tapped his ear and continued. “Mel, you seeing this? Yeah, we’ll need extraction as soon as possible. Clint. He’s here.” 

 

“Ladies and gentlemen, it appears there’s been an explosion; we’re switching to a feed from our sister network, the BBC.“ A blonde female anchor who looked like all the others filled the screen. “Let’s join them now.” 

 

“... everywhere. I can see a woman with a bone protruding from her leg; people are trying to dig her out from under some debris. It’s chaos here; U.N. security forces are appearing on scene …” 

 

Andy stuck his head in the pass through. “You got time before your ride gets here to eat or you want it to go?” 

 

“To go,” Phil replied. “ETA is ten minutes.” 

 

**AMRITA RAY**

 

Monday nights are the slowest; theaters are shuttered and most people are home, going to bed early to catch up from all the sleep they missed over the weekend. I always brought my old laptop to get some studying done; Andy’s wifi was stronger than the weak signal I got at home. Dad refuses to pay for more bandwidth, mostly because he never uses it. Still has a flip phone without a keyboard, and he’s got that because Mama made him buy it in case he got stranded on the way home from work. Tonight, I was doing research for my Economics paper on the proposed raise in the minimum wage.  I felt a little hypocritical considering I was a waitress with a salary I could live on even before tips, but the professor wanted us to write on something we knew about and I’d had jobs before this one to draw upon. 

 

For almost midnight, we had quite a crowd.  Two young guys were in one booth; they were cute, on a first date, all heart eyes and fluster. They’d ordered shakes and were taking their time looking over the menu; I’d thought about sending Kayla over before she went off shift, but they looked like they needed the time to make any decisions.  At another table, a mother and college age daughter with the same blonde hair and blue eyes, had just sat down, pouring over the laminated menu, talking back and forth about calories and carb counts.  Perched on stools at the counter, the man and woman obviously had been together long enough to order for each other; they were arguing about what color tile to put in the bathroom. She wanted travertine and he was all for white and grey marble. Their desserts were slowly disappearing as they listed the pros and cons of each choice. 

 

When Tony Stark came in, I froze, glanced over at Kayla and then at Roy.   He was in one of his terrible disguises … at least this hoodie had oil stains on it … and he shuffled over to a two man booth down by the far end of the counter. Before I could start his way, Kayla was already striding over, a determined look on her face; she had on her “I Stand With Vi” t-shirt and a red/white ribbon just above the pin with Sam’s face. We all had the same shirt and pins; Andy had put the ribbons up in the windows and there was a donation jar by the register to help pay Vivian Wilson’s legal fees.

 

After the mess that happened in Germany, there’d been no word of the missing Avengers. TV was full of Tony giving interviews about amending the accords, updates on Colonel Rhodes’ progress, and even snaps of Vision shopping at Whole Foods. But Clint, Sam, Wanda, Scott, Steve, and James … it was as if they’d fallen off the edge of the earth. My father was sure they’d been killed in secret, but I couldn’t believe that any more than I could accept that James, our sometimes handyman who walked me home to protect me from muggers, was a terrorist bomber. A few reporters had ferreted out the real story of that Zemo guy, how it was all a setup, and how he had to have had inside help to pull it off. 

 

They probably would have dropped off the radar, those who had helped Cap, except for Sam’s grandmother. She’d had her son drive her up from Washington D.C. so she could ask Stark where Sam was. When she couldn’t get in to see him, she set up a lawn chair in the atrium of Stark Tower and waited. Soon, members of her family joined her and, eventually, they were told they had to vacate the building, so they moved outside. Every day for a week she showed up in the morning and sat there all day, knitting scarves and giving them away to people who passed. The media caught on quickly and ran video of them with their signs asking “Where’s Sam?” 

 

When word came that it was General Thaddeus Ross who knew where they were, Vivian packed up and moved to the Capitol Building in D.C. Friends of Sam joined them, veterans he worked with at the VA, and people he’d served with. More signs appeared:  Where’s Wanda? Where’s Scott? Where’s Clint?  Thinking to end the spectacle, Ross showed up on the capitol steps, giving a thundering speech about taking care of our own, only his moment was stolen by a little girl named Cassie who challenged him to bring her Daddy, a hero, home.  All over New York, people bought t-shirts and wore buttons with the missing Avengers’ faces. Some hardy souls kept pasting up missing posters all along the windows of the lobby of the Stark Tower every night. 

 

“What do you want?” Kayla asked Stark, hand on her hip. 

 

Stark stared up at her, taking off his sunglasses … who wears sunglasses at night? .. and laying them on the table. He read the shirt, looked at smiling face of Sam Wilson, and cocked an eyebrow. “Don’t you already know?” 

 

“I don’t think anyone can understand how your mind works. You make stupid ass decisions, Stark.” She huffed and dropped her hand. “But then we all do. Important part is to help make things right afterwards. You gonna bring ‘em home safe and sound?” 

 

“Working on it.” Tony sat back, his shoulders slumping as tension bled out of his body. “Best I can do right now.” 

 

She gave him a crisp nod then patted his hand. “Okay. That’ll do.  Roy, get me a mocha triple shot latte, will you? I’ll get your burger started.” 

 

Crisis averted, I stopped by the first date booth to see if they were ready to order. The blonde one finally ordered an Easy Lover BLT and the brown haired one settled on a My House chicken salad croissant. I talked them into sharing an order of garlic parm fries and stuck the ticket on the spinner for Andy.  The mother and daughter decided on the Two of Hearts salad and a C’est La Vie onion soup bowl. By the way they were eyeing the napoleon the woman at the counter had almost finished, I was pretty sure a shared dessert was in their future. 

 

It took me a good minute to realize that the guy who came in didn’t just look like Steve Rogers but WAS Steve Rogers.  He’d grown a full beard and mustache, all neatly trimmed, and darkened his hair to a chestnut brown. A pair of tortoise rimmed glasses helped hide his distinct cheekbones, the beard covering that firm jaw. And his clothes … he was dressed completely in the kind of stuff you’d find at H&M, European styling on his henley, slim jeans, black dress shoes, and a battered leather jacket. To say he was sexy was an understatement; he was also different enough to assume he just had the misfortune of looking like a famous person.

 

Making his way across the diner, Steve sat down opposite Tony. I snagged the cup of coffee Roy made as soon as he was done and slid it across the laminate top to Steve.  “Nothing to eat, thanks,” Steve told me. “But I wouldn’t mind a slice of pie, whatever kind you’ve got.” 

 

We all beat a hasty retreat, leaving the two alone with their whispered conversation, taking care of the other customers. Whatever was happening, at least they were talking; if I listened to the gossip rags my sister reads, Steve almost killed Tony in Siberia or visa-versa depending on the source. James killed Tony’s family or Steve did or Tony’s father helped make James the Winter Soldier. All of it rumors, of course. The New York Times did a long piece about Howard Stark’s involvement in the United State’s attempts to make another super soldier, and a second one on declassified Soviet documents about HYDRA’s infiltration of certain areas of their military. 

 

Kayla delivered Stark’s burger; Steve smiled at her shirt and winked at her. I picked up an extra set of silverware when I grabbed Steve’s pie; sure enough, Stark made a gesture with his hands just as I arrived, knocking his fork to the floor and narrowly avoiding where I should have been standing. I gave him the clean fork, handing Steve his pie, and bobbed my head to both. 

 

“How are classes going?” Steve always inquired about me and my family.  “Didn’t your sister graduate this year?” 

 

“June 3rd, with honors. She’s going to beauty school,” I told him. “I’m taking Economics and Astronomy this semester; I’m helping take care of Grandmother, so two is all I can handle.” 

 

“I know a little about both of those subjects,” Tony started to say, but he cut off at a look from Steve. “Yeah, you’re probably better off without my help.” 

 

“Thank you for the offer,” I replied. “I have to take calculus next fall; I may take you up on it then.” 

 

A sparkle appeared in Stark’s eyes. “Ah, calculus. My bread and butter. We’ll have you acing tests in no time!”

 

Their confab didn’t last all that long; Steve finished his pie and had a second cup of coffee, and Stark waved off dessert. A jump drive and some documents  switched hands then Stark left money for the bill as well as an obscene tip which Kayla and I would split after sharing with Roy. Sipping his drink, Steve started out into the darkness long past the time Stark would need to get in his car and drive back to the Tower. 

 

“Everything’s clear,” the woman at the counter told Steve. 

 

A sparkling wave of red washed through the diner, and all the customers changed.  Sam sat at the counter beside a pretty blonde. The mother became Natasha and the daughter Wanda Maximoff. And the two guys on a date were Phil and Clint. 

 

“Sorry about the subterfuge,” Steve told Andy.  “We needed a safe place to meet.” 

 

“Not a problem,” Andy replied. “Think of this as neutral ground.” 

 

“Sam Wilson!” Kayla marched over to him. “Call your grandmother! She’s worried sick.” 

 

“Already on it,” Sam told her. “She’s determined to hold feet to the fire on this; I think she likes being the rebel of the family for once.” 

 

“Everyone, this is Sharon Carter.” Steve introduced the blonde. “Sharon, this is Rita, Roy, Kayla, and Andy.”

 

“Hello.” She smiled at them all. “The food was excellent, by the way. I can’t wait to try one of those salads next time I’m in town.” 

 

“We better go,” Wanda interrupted. “I can’t hold the illusion much longer. Did you get what we need?” 

 

“The program and Tony’s notes. This should go a long way to helping Bucky,” Steve said. “I’ll just settle up and we’ll head out.” 

 

“No need. Tony covered it all.” Kayla waved a 100 dollar bill plus some change at him. “He’s got a good head for numbers. Hit it right on the nose.”

 

Steve gave a fond smile. “Of course he did.”

 

They left one-by-one, disappearing with Wanda’s magic, until only Phil and Clint were remained.

 

“You wouldn’t happen to have any desserts left? I think there will be a riot if I don’t bring back pie,” Phil asked.  

 

Clint laughed and stepped closer; Phil’s hand slipped around Clint’s waist, resting lighting on his back. “Riot’s the best outcome. Full blown mutiny is more likely.” 

 

“We’ve got half a cherry, half a blackberry, and about a quarter of an apple pie. Or I could dish up some of Mickey’s creme brulee. You’ll have to put it in the broiler once you get there,” Andy said. 

 

“We’ll take the cherry and blackberry.” Phil stopped as Clint whispered something in his ear; his face flushed. “And an order of the brulee.”  

 

“I’ll pack it right up.” 

 

I had to bite back the big smile that wanted to crawl across my face. After so long, and so many obstacles, to see two of my favorite people happy together, well, it gave me hope. I’m a closet romantic; gotta be realistic about life in order to survive, but a girl can dream, right? The look Phil gave Clint as they left would feed my fantasies for a long time to come. They’d all survived and come out of the darkness, some happier, some not. We were the lucky ones who got to see another side of them, know them beyond the glossy pictures and grainy video. 

 

We were the ones blessed by the knowledge that the world was protected. And, somehow, we each got to help in our small way.

  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> The idea that Clint asks Frank Castle to take care of Laura and the kids comes from some posts originally made by the amazing spectralarchers.tumblr.com. And the notion of Sam's grandmother becoming a political activists also came across my dashboard from perspi-looks.tumblr.com. Check it out here! http://perspi-looks.tumblr.com/post/145358693643/whereisfalcon


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